Authors: Vicki Hinze
Fontaine was going to love this.
Why had William taken the drum back into Joe’s room? Why did he refuse to call Joe by name? Why had he warned Sara? That had to have been a sham to seduce her into taking him into her confidence. He had to still be Fontaine’s ally.
Sara dropped in on Michael, Ray, and Lou. Fred was again absent from his room, and Sara had the sneaking suspicion that her missing him time after time wasn’t accidental. More of Fontaine’s pranks she did not need. She walked back to the nurses’ station.
Shank hung up the phone. “Busy night last night.”
“Evidently.” Sara drummed her fingers against the files. “Why is Fred never in his room?”
“Most of the time, he is there.” Shank avoided Sara’s eyes. “He’s having extra hydrotherapy sessions, but otherwise, he’s there.”
He wasn’t, and he hadn’t been. Shank flushed at the lie, appeared reluctant and bitter. She was being forced to be dishonest with Sara; that Sara sensed down to her toenails. But by whom? Certainly not by Fontaine. “I want Fred in his room at four o’clock today, Shank. No excuses.”
“Sixteen hundred, Major,” Shank corrected, and tilted her chin up at Sara. “Am I hearing an accusation behind that order?”
“What you’re hearing is a frustrated doctor wondering how the hell she can treat or help a patient she’s never seen. He’s my responsibility, Shank. Four o’clock, or I’ll be ending my day like I started it.”
“How’s that?”
“Going toe-to-toe with Fabulous Fontaine.”
Worry flickered through Shank’s eyes. “I’ll see to it Fred is there.”
“Thank you.” Realizing she had spoken sharply, Sara paused and turned back to Shank. “I don’t mean to take anything out on you, okay? You’re the only one who’s treated me decently. I’m just frustrated, that’s all.”
“It’s okay, Doc. Really.” Shank smiled. “Hey, did you notice that I got Joe to eat this morning? He usually refuses breakfast.”
“How did you manage it?”
“I told him if he didn’t at least eat part of his breakfast, you’d be worried.”
“And that worked?”
Shank nodded, her eyes sparkling with warm light. “I think you’re starting to get that attachment factor going.”
“I hope you’re right.” Boy, did Sara hope it. For Joe and everyone else who was depending on her to handle this well. “Have you noted any one thing common to all of the PTSD patients?”
“Only the typical, clinical reactions.”
Those were one-eighty degrees out the realm of normal in all of the patients, and Shank was too sharp an RN not to know it. Which meant she was being subtle again, forcing Sara to take a close look to make sure she had noted it, too. “And their reactions to the color white.”
“Except for Fred and Lou. Bless his heart, Lou’s too far gone to react to much of anything.”
He had reacted to something last night. “What about the color red?” Sara asked. Joe certainly had reacted strongly to her red nail polish. Polish she had removed with acetone immediately after watching him suffer the rage.
“Can’t say I’ve noticed anything on red.” Shank pursed her lips. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a thought.” Sara gave the files a final tap. “Thanks,” she said, then headed toward the Isolation Wing.
Shank watched her go.
When Sara rounded the corner and stepped out of sight, Shank lifted the phone, punched down the secure-line button, and then dialed.
He answered on the first ring. “Foster.”
“She’s demanding to see ADR-22—Fred, sir. Today at sixteen hundred.”
“It’s too soon,” he said. “Stall her.”
“Stall her?” Easy for him to say. “Have you ever tried to stall a Mack truck barreling up your butt, sir?”
“Yes, I have, Captain, and I suggest you remember that this Mack truck is sharp. Play it safe and keep it low-key.”
“But, sir. She’s not going to brush this off or just let it ride. He’s her patient, and she has demanded to see him. Either he’s in his room at sixteen hundred, or she’s going to raise the roof with Fontaine. Martha said he raged for an hour after their confrontation this morning.” Shank grabbed a breath, then continued. “Aside from that, things are moving fast. Dr. West has asked me about her patients’ reacting to white
and
red.”
“Red, too?” He sounded mildly surprised. “Already?”
God, but Shank hated him. Especially when he was right, and she’d never known him to be wrong. “Already, sir.”
“Damn, she’s good.” He sounded pleased with himself.
“Yes, she is.” And they were doing her dirty. Shank let out an exasperated breath. Oh, but she hated being put in this position. She actually liked Sara. The woman not only had stood up to Fontaine, she had intimidated him into backing down. And it was about time someone did. “You might have to run a little interference between her and Fontaine. He’s on the warpath, big-time.”
“Sara West can handle Fontaine.”
Shank suspected Foster was right about that. Sara was a capable woman. But even capable women needed a little support now and then. “She’s what’s got him on the warpath. She found the bug and got rid of it. And she bucked him on naming the PTSD patients.”
“She’ll handle him,” Foster repeated.
Subject closed. Shank fought to keep her frustration out of her voice. “With all due respect, sir, I think Dr. West could also handle the truth.”
“You know my policy, Captain. Never trust outsiders.”
“I know, sir, but—”
“She’s not military.”
“We can’t control her.” Shank bluntly restated the crux of the matter.
“Exactly,” Foster agreed. “I can’t risk her taking this situation outside. The last thing we need to do is alert the enemy.”
Especially those enemies who were supposed to be allies. Hard-nosed, but once again, Foster was right. “So what about Fred?”
“Damn it, Captain, use your training. Create a diversion. Do whatever you have to do, but you keep her away from ADR-22 until I give the word.”
“Yes, sir.” Shank grimaced and tossed a wadded-up piece of trash from the floor into the wastepaper basket. “My guess is, she’ll be heading to the store tonight.”
“What for?”
“To make a couple of calls. Mainly to chew ass, sir. Unless I’m mistaken, yours.”
“It’s time.” He paused for a brief moment. “Do what you can to help her get past Security.”
“May I ask why you didn’t tell her there’s a secure phone line on the premises?”
“I want to see how resourceful she is, Shank.”
How could he be amused? It was beyond her, but the lilt in his voice was unmistakable. Shank grimaced. “Know your enemy.”
“And your allies,” Foster amended. “Even those who don’t know they’re your allies.”
Another senseless test.
Accomplish the mission. Whatever, whenever, wherever.
“Yes, sir.” To keep from bellowing, Shank bit her lip until she tasted blood. Why couldn’t he just play straight with Sara? She was tough and fair. She could handle the truth, and she could be trusted not to go outside.
Create a diversion. Do whatever you have to do but you
keep her away from ADR-22 until I give the word.
Shank hung up the phone and just stared at it. Keep Sara away from her own patient. Now just how in hell was Shank supposed to pull that off?
Koloski was minding the monitors and reading Nelson DeMille’s novel
The Charm School.
Hearing her approach, he marked his spot on the page with a fingertip and looked up. “Hey, Doc. What’s in the box?”
Not once had he bothered to glance at the monitors. Still, aside from Shank, he was more friendly than anyone else. Sara dredged up a smile. “Some therapy aids.” White and red might have triggered Joe’s episodic rage, but Sara doubted that the violent attacks could be in response to anything that simple. So she wanted to check it out.
The box shifted and slid against her hipbone. She clutched at it and nodded at Koloski. “Will you buzz me through?”
“Yes, ma’am. Joe’s been asking for you all morning.”
Joe.
Koloski was trying to be accommodating, putting in a lot more effort than William. “Thanks.” She smiled again and heard the buzzer.
“No problem. He ripped a little padding off the wall in his room. Dr. Fontaine wasn’t happy.”
“Why did Joe do it?”
“I can’t say, and he wouldn’t.” Koloski shrugged. “It’s good to hear your voice sounding better.” He returned to reading his book. “If you need me, I’ll be right here.”
Her voice was better. Not normal, but better. “Appreciate it.”
In the hallway outside Joe’s room, she jammed the box between her stomach and the door frame and knocked. “Joe? It’s me, Dr. West. Can I come in?”
“Okay, Sara.”
So much for professional distance. He’d remembered her name and used it. Well, this attraction was her problem, not his, and anything that helped him attach was going to have to be okay. She’d just have to deal with it.
She turned the knob and stepped inside. The door closed behind her, and the buzzer shut off. Joe was wearing pale blue pajamas, a size too tight. Long sleeves. No robe or slippers, and no straitjacket. “Hey, you shaved.” She offered him a genuine smile.
“I did?” He rubbed at his smooth chin. “I guess they did it.” Worry clouded his eyes. “I don’t remember it.”
“No big deal. That’ll come.” She set the box down on the floor. “Aren’t you going to ask me what’s in the box?”
“Okay.” He smiled. “What’s in the box?”
God, but he had a terrific smile. It lit up his eyes from the bottom. “Stuff.” She glanced over to the gouged padding. “We’re going to decorate your room.”
“I don’t want to decorate.” He frowned and crossed his chest with his arms. “I told you, I want out of here.”
Sara had expected this, and she was ready for it. “I know. And I want you out of here. But first, I have to know in my heart that you don’t pose a threat to the other patients or to yourself.” She braced a hand on her hip. “Your safety and theirs is my responsibility, Joe.”
“I’m responsible for myself.” He glared down at her. “I always have been.”
Sara’s heart shifted, tripped a beat. She stilled opening the box, the smells of cardboard and paint tickling her nose. “Have you?”
“Yes. And I want out of here.”
“What about your parents? Weren’t they with you?”
“They were there, but it was like
. . .
” He stumbled and stopped; took in a deep breath, as if hoping he’d inhale the answer with it. “I don’t know what they were like.” He dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “Damn it, I hate this.”
“I know. PTSD patients always hate it. It’s hard, but it gets easier when you just relax. Then, you work past it.”
Skepticism twisted his mouth. “I want out. I want to see the sun.”
“I understand. And as soon as I can, I’ll move you. That’s the best I can do.” She pulled some things from the box. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s work on decorating your room, dabble in a few other things I’ve got in mind that could help you relax, and if all is well tomorrow, then
.
I’ll take you outside for a while. We’ve got to do this by steps, Joe. So we’re both comfortable with what we’re doing. Does that sound like a fair deal?”
He studied her a long moment and then walked over. “Provided you turn off that damn music. I’m sick of it.”
“Really?” Surprised, she straightened up, a paintbrush in her right hand. “Celtic music is very soothing. I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“It’s driving me nuts.”
Sara smiled. Clearly Joe didn’t consider himself nuts, or he would never use the term. That was always a good sign. “Ah, but since you’ve been listening to it, you haven’t had to fight the rage.”
He set his jaw, showing her a potential stubborn streak. “I’ve come close.”